Mixology
by Sharzdah
Summary: In retrospect, Santana no one to blame but herself. All she wanted was to go to NYC, open a bar, become a Tinder expert and live out her live with Kitty and Sam by her side. Under no circumstances, she was looking for anything serious. Especially with a dancer whose abs she became well-acquainted with because of a body shot challenge. Abandoned/Discontinued.
1. Sidecar

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything that has a patent or any cocktail recipes. Unfortunately, so does my bank account is also aware of this sad fact. Also, as a warning, this story currently does not have a beta so all mistakes are mine. Rated M for Santana's mouth and suggestive situations.**

 **Author's note: This is a repost of story I had deleted due to writer's block (but it's back, permanently, this time).** **This is going to most likely be a very slow burn Santana/Brittany story. All other characters and couples will make an appearance—mostly canon.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Sidecar**

 ** _Easy and classic starter cocktail._**

 ** _Need: 1 lemon (cut in half), sugar, ice, 3 oz. of Cognac, 1.5 oz. of Lemon Juice, 1.5 oz. of Orange Liquor._**

 ** _How to Make: Rim the glasses with lemon and sugar. Fill shaker half way with ice, and add: Cognac, lemon juice and liqueur and shake for 10 secs. Strain the drink into the rimmed-glasses._**

* * *

 _ **2010**_

In retrospect, Santana had no one to blame but herself for this. It was her fault, and her fault alone, that she had taken Kitty's suggestion into consideration, knowing full and well of the woman's reputation.

Kitty Wilde might have been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she could not choose a piece of real estate if her life depended on it.

It's a nice place, she had said.

It would be a perfect place for you to open your bar, she had said.

It only need a few repairs, _she had said_.

Santana looked up to... frankly, nothing much. There was no ceiling. Only dead wires, a hunch of useless broken light fixtures and pipes whose dark color Santana couldn't determine if it was paint on grim. She grimaced as she continued to study them— yeah, most likely grime.

She looked down. The floor was made up of areas of old tiles, broken old titles, no tiles and ratty puke green carpet, mostly stained with goodness knows what.

She looked around. There wasn't much furniture lying around, only a few rotting tables and couches along the far left-side wall of the club and a couple of bar stools. The gaudy wallpaper was peeing, revealing an ugly yellow painted wall. At least, the mirror behind the bar was still intact, and the bar table was still standing tall, but it was mostly going to have to be replaced.

Santana didn't bother checking the bathrooms, afraid of what she would find.

She turned to her usually quiet friend, definitely not impressed in Kitty's real estate finding. "This place looks like shit," she declared, narrowing her eyes. A part of her wondered if this was all a joke- Kitty was known for doing something like. "Complete and utter shit."

After almost tripping over a stray wire (perhaps, wearing five-inch heels hadn't been the smartest idea), Kitty stood at her friend's side and looked around. So, Santana might have a little point about the place. Maybe a big point, but like anything, Kitty was convinced that all the old club was money invested into it, some good carpenters and an exterminator and the place would look as good as new in no time. She was sure of it. "I wouldn't call it shit..."

"This place looks like shit," Santana repeated, pacing around the open space where a Harlem nightclub once stood from 1979 to 1987. Word on the street was that the place had closed after a DEA raid; _apparently_ , coke had been sold openly—something Santana hadn't known until _after_ Kitty had arranged to visit the place.

Classic Kitty.

"So, this place is a dump," Kitty eventually admitted, feeling a bit bad that she had introduced her friend to this place in the first place. Okay, so she could have founded something much better and less seedy.

"And old as hell."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Of course, it's old. We're in the middle of New York City. Practically everything's old, but this is prime real estate, I tell you." she insisted. " _Prime_. You're right off of 125th Street."

Santana removed her attention from the disco ball, lying at the corner of the club to Kitty. "Your persuasive skills are definitely lacking."

Kitty rolled her eyes again. "Whatever," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "I know this isn't the best place, but I thought you would a little thankful that my, uh, friend has practically cut the rent in half for this. All thanks to good ol' me."

Santana snorted. Santana wasn't going to lie; the rent deal was pretty sweet. Suspiciously sweet, though. Like connections with an unlawful-binding family suspiciously sweet. "I didn't tell you to screw the landowner for me," she pointed out as she headed to the bar area. She grimaced at the sight of New York's official insect scrambling from one end of the table to another, with no care in the world—the next one she saw, she vowed, she was going to kill it. She didn't do roaches, water bugs, pigeons or cat-sized rats.

Santana scoffed. She sure picked the _perfect city_ to move to from Lima, Ohio. Maybe she should have moved to San Antonio, like she had promised her abuela when she graduated from Rutgers; the rent was definitely cheaper, and was positive that the city wasn't full of radioactive rats who literally had no fucks to give.

She shook her head. It was too late to change her plans now. Not when she already had signed a lease to an apartment (more like a closet) shared with three other people in Brooklyn, and she had already taken out a business loan worth more than her college education, her car and her parent's mortgage all together.

Two-hundred-freaking-thousand dollars.

And ten thousand from her savings and gifts from her family.

This bar and club better pan out.

No, it _had_ to.

Santana never thought she would ever gather enough nerve to relocate to America's largest city and shop for her new place of business in a span of a couple of months. She had always expected to be in show business because not only was she hot, but she could sing _and_ dance) or married off to some heir of a massive fortune (preferably, a closeted one) who wouldn't mind his wife having a girlfriend.

But then again, never in a million years did she think she would be friends with Kitty Wilde, the daughter to movie director mogul who hated living Hollywood so much that she moved to New York.

Funny how life worked out.

"First of all, I didn't sleep with Jake—" Kitty stopped, because everyone knew _that_ was a lie. She reworded her reply, "Okay, I didn't sleep with Jake for _this_. It came with the arrangement."

Santana raised an eyebrow. She was curious about this "arrangement," but she was wary about the sordid details. Kitty wasn't known for being vanilla about anything, much to her father's dismay and the tabloid's joy. "Uh yeah, arrangement."

Kitty brushed off Santana's obvious display of judgement. "Oh, come on, Tana, can you honestly blame me? He's hot. He's loaded, and he's nowhere the delinquent asshole that his brother is. Speaking of his brother…"

Santana rolled her eyes. Right, Jake's brother: Noah "Puck" Puckerman. A serial dater, a serial petty offender and a serial job-turnover. He had just been released from jail (served four months for engaging in a bar-fight) a couple of weeks ago, and he obviously needed a job. Santana didn't know what deal Kitty had stricken with Jake, but all she knew that she was in the middle of it and needed to hire the man. Apparently, he was a phenomenal DJ, so he might have some use. Just not anytime soon.

"What does he know about restoring old clubs?"

"Uh, nothing," Kitty admitted. " _But_ he's good at throwing parties and he has quite a clientele. Which can be useful for your grand-opening. So… no job for him, right now?"

"Not unless he learns a thing or two about construction," Santana said, scanning the club again for the umpteenth time. "Fuck, I'm going to need to be connected to the damn mob to get this place fixed."

Which was not the ideal plan, by the way.

Santana wasn't that desperate.

At least, she didn't think she was.

"Yeah, let's try not to do that," Kitty advised. "Jake already had enough issues with them." She further explained herself when Santana glanced at her, concerned. "Don't worry. They all solved. A long time ago. _Legally_ ," and then quickly asked, "Didn't you take out a loan?"

"You think two hundred-large is going to cover all of this?" Santana asked. "This place needs to be in Extreme Makeover or that show—you know with the guy who flips bars while yelling at the owners and staff?"

"Yeah, but I think you need a failing bar to get on that show…" Kitty reminded her friend, then offered, "Oh, I have an idea: let me be part owner, and I'll help you fix the place," Kitty offered. "I obviously have the money, and I would totally just give it to you, but you know how my dad is. I can't give large sums of money away."

Kitty's relationship with her father, to put it lightly, was interesting. Apparently, since the woman didn't get into an Ivy-League school and opted to attend UCLA instead, her father thought she was failure. He didn't want his only daughter to be a bubbling socialite, another Kardashian; he wanted her to be in a respected profession—Kitty didn't. She loved the fashion business and the social life and she had promised her father that before she turned thirty, which was in three years, that she would be invested in a legal business.

This bar would be her chance to be in her father's good graces again.

Except for the fact that Kitty was not business-minded.

At all.

"Like you know a damn thing about running a business."

Kitty gives her friend an annoyed look. "Look, you need the money and I need to prove to my father that I can do more than attend exclusive parties and spend his money."

Santana thought for a moment. This bar was hers. It was her plan and it was going to be her business, but damn it, if she was going to make it in this city, she was going to need a hell of a lot more than 200 grand. She might just have to bite the bullet. "Fine."

"Yes!" Kitty grinned and clapped. "Okay, how about I own fifty percent?"

Santana snorted. "Fifteen."

"Forty."

"Thirty-five. Final decision," Santana decided, staring her friend down. Unfortunately, Kitty was one of the few people in the universe who was immune to the woman's gaze, but it didn't hurt to try. "I plan on making a ton in this place so you'll be able to pay for your shopping sprees about hearing it from your dad."

Kitty frowned at the continuous mention of her father. The man was the biggest thorn on her side, even bigger than Jake's mother, who did not like her one bit—which, honestly, she couldn't understand. It wasn't like the mother could eve accuse her of being a gold-digger like Jake's previous money. She _had_ money. "Sounds good to me. Speaking of shopping sprees…"

Santana groaned.

"You still haven't fulfilled your promise to go on with me."

Santana groaned. Oh yes, that promise.

She couldn't exactly remember why she had made that promise. She could never afford a shopping spree with Kitty. Kitty didn't believe in sales. But Santana couldn't just brush off the promise. Kitty would never forgive her. "Okay, fine. How about we go to the Century 21 near Fulton?" she offered. That store sold Louis Vuitton and Prada, so Kitty should be happy.

Kitty wasn't impressed. "A discount place, really?" She shook her head. Okay, she would have to use another time to convince her friend to go to another place, like Bloomindale's. "So, is there anything you like in this place?"

Santana shrugged. The only thing that she liked around the former night club was the sizeable dance floor and DJ booth. If she was going to open any type of business up, she needed music and people who loved to dance. She pointed to the area. "That would be a great dancefloor."

"It is pretty big," Kitty said. "You can turn this place into a nightclub if you want."

Santana nodded, "I could…"

"So, do you want this place or not?" Kitty asked, appearing hopeful. She had sort of told Jake that this was a done deal. Which was one of the reasons why he had provided a rental discount; he wanted to sell this place because a big-time developer took it away. "I kind of told that you would, so…" she bit her lower lip. "A yes would be great."

Santana wasn't even surprised. This was also classic Kitty. "Of course, you did."

Santana looked around, for, what she swore would be, the last time today. The place was a mess, but it wasn't impossible to fix. Plus, the area was great. Although it wasn't mid-town or lower Manhattan, it was too busy and full of potential patrons. Plus, she always had a soft spot for Harlem.

It was gamble, simply because this would be the first time she would own and run a business, but she had think she enough experience to pull it off. She had been around the bar business for quite a while, thanks to an uncle in Jersey who had ran two successful bars. He had she had what it takes, and Santana completely agreed with him.

But she didn't think she could say yes to the offer. Not yet. She needed more options because she drained her savings and her loan into the business. But, she supposed, she could add this place on his list. "I'll think about it," she said. "Really think about it. I'll let you know by the end of the week. After we visit the other places. Sounds good?"

"Good."

* * *

Three months and a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit later, Santana, perhaps against her better judgement, brought the old club in Harlem.

Kitty was happy.

Jake was ecstatic.

And Puck still needed a job, but Santana had promised him that he would be the DJ, so he was okay for now.

"So, what are you going to name it, Partner?" Kitty asked, handing Santana a glass of champagne, that she was surprised she had dropped while stepping over so much construction material. Perhaps, engaging in business in a middle of a construction site in heels, once again, wasn't the smartest idea.

Santana thanked Kitty for the drink, downed most of it, and then replied with a wide smile. " _Santana's Bar_."

"Really?" Kitty said, scrunching up her face in dissatisfaction. It wasn't a good look for her, but Santana was too excited to mention that to her friend. "But that's so… boring."

"I own sixty-five percent of this bar, so I should name it whatever the hell I please." She grinned as Kitty playfully rolled her eyes. "I like the name. It has my name it in."

"You're so full of yourself."

"I know _you're_ not talking."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Santana's Bar, it is."

Santana finished her drink before replying, smiling now with all of her teeth showing. "Thank you, Partner."


	2. Long Island Iced Tea

**Long Island Iced Tea**

 ** _Or as Andy from the Office calls it: A Bad Decision in a Glass._**

 ** _Need: 0.5 oz. of Vodka, 0.5 oz. of rum, 0.5 oz. of gin, 0.5 oz. of tequila, 0.5 oz. of triple sec, 1.0 oz of sweet and sour mix, 1.0 oz. of cola and one slice of lemon._**

 ** _How to make: Put ice in cocktail shaker. Pour all liquor over the ice and shake. Pour the cocktail into a glass and top it with a splash of cola. Garnish with lemon._**

* * *

 _ **2018**_

Santana Lopez couldn't believe she was subjecting herself to this, to this...

She didn't know what _this_ was.

Honestly, she was Santana. She was the majority owner of her own business. It had been seven years since the doors of Santana's Bar opened in New York City, and business was still booming. She was the boss of over fifty staff—she was featured on Food Network for heaven's sake! (And never poised to be a contestant of her reality show weakness, Bar Rescue). She literally _ran_ shit.

People like her did not watch people like _him_ down countless shots in a matter of twenty minutes. People like her did not request the bartender for the night to dilute _his_ drinks in order not to deal with a blacked-out man who was a great deal taller than her—she was a bar owner, not a goddamn baby sitter.

If Kitty was here, she would have knocked some sense into her and demand Sam to grow a goddamn pair.

Speaking of the future Mrs. Younger Puckerman (she _still_ couldn't believe this), Santana needed to RSVP to her Milan-Bachelorette Party Extravaganza yesterday.

 _Shit_.

Anyway, it was a pathetic sight to see such a confident man such as Sam down shots like he was back in college.

Sam Evans was a frequent patron to Santana's Bar, usually coming along three times a week, almost always right after work in midtown. She had known the man for years. Since middle school. They dated for some bit during high school—he was a football player and she was a Cheerios, so _of course_ , it would happen. The relationship wouldn't last for long, and in Sam's defense; it wasn't his fault. One month in, Santana would realize that despite Sam's appearance, she would never be attracted to him—or any man. So, after the awkward as hell break up and high school graduation, they remained good friends.

Two minutes passed, and Santana had reached her breaking point. She was tired off all of this brooding, this emo-behavior, this wasting time. She snatched the shot of gin out of Sam's hands and asked, "So, what the hell happened?"

"I'm fine, Santana. Nothing is wrong. I had a wonderful day at work, and I may even see the new Avengers movie next week. Can't a man enjoy a drink without getting interrogated every single damn time?"

So, something _was_ wrong.

"Is this about Rebecca?'

" _Rebecca_?" Sam groaned. "For the last time, her name is Rachel, and we've both decided that it would be wise, for the both of us, to engage in a strictly-platonic relationship."

"So, in other words, you two are over."

"Yes, I guess you can say that," Sam said before ordering yet another shot.

Santana eyed the bartender.

He nodded in return.

Good, this tequila would be diluted too.

"She wanted to get married," Sam continued, sounding a bit horrified as his slid the glass to towards the other three. "She wanted us to go rent out Lincoln goddamn Center and get married there. Oh, and he's the kicker: she wanted to bring Finn along, so he could be the best man."

"Finn? As in _Finn_?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Marriage, very interesting," Santana said, flashing Sam an amused look. Boy, he certainly knew how to choose them. "Didn't you two know each other, for what? Three weeks."

"Twenty days."

"You've been counting?"

"With her, you got to."

"That's not… healthy."

"And that's why I'm now a single man."

Santana was proud of Sam—minus the whole downing diluted gin thing—the old Sam would have humored Rachel and find himself in the middle of cuckhold relationship. Progress.

"So, why the ice tea's?"

"Breakups are fucking hard."

"Well, I just want to let you know that this emo-phase you're in right now, it's gotta stop. You're scaring away my patrons," Santana said, and before Sam could protest because damn could that man protest about _everything_ , she added, "And because I am feeling quite generous right now, I have decided that I am going find you a suitable mate so I can live my life without dealing with a brooding alcoholic."

"First off, I'm not an alcoholic, and second: _you_ are going to find me a girlfriend?" Sam couldn't help but laugh. Santana and matchmaking—no, never. She didn't have the patience, and he thought it was a complete just. That was, until he noticed the expression on Santana's face. "Wait. Shit, you're serious?"

If this was any other time, and any other person, Santana would have been offended. But this was Sam, and Sam was always questioning her. "Of course, I'm serious, Trouty. Your lack of a staple love life is driving me up the wall, so therefore something gotta get done. And before you even say it: No, a string of one night stands does not count as a love life."

"And what about Brittany?"

Santana bristled. He knew the rules. He knew he didn't mention her name unless given explicit permission to do so. "What about her?" she asked through teeth.

Unlike everyone (with the exception of Kitty and Brittany), Sam was not fazed by the angry vibes rolling off of Santana. He even seemed a bit amused. Feeling a little confident, he pressed on, "So, I'm guessing you didn't ask her."

"I did ask her, _thank you_ , she just doesn't know I was referring to her."

"And you said I was bad..."

"You are bad!" Santana contested, crossing her arms and then added, "Fuck you."

Sam chuckled for the first time tonight. "What happened to you two anyway?"

* * *

What happened with Brittany.

Santana didn't even know.

Okay, she did.

In retrospect, she honestly had no one to blame but herself (and maybe Kitty).

It had all begun on Santana's Bar's Grand Opening Night, and Santana couldn't have been any happier. She had never thought in a million years that she would be in this position.

Yes, it was November. Yes, it was cold outside. Yes, it was almost Thanksgiving—but people were still here. And from the looks of it, having a good time. It wasn't until nine in the evening had Santana had the chance to slow down, to stand at the back of the venue and watch everyone have a good time without staring down at each and every one of her employees.

(She hadn't intended to become a micromanager, but this had been opening night. _Everything had to be perfect_.)

"Have you ever considered becoming a promoter?"

Kitty had stared at Santana as if she was rocking Louie Vuitton knock-offs. "Me, a promoter?" She had snorted and rolled her eyes. "As if."

"Oh, come on, why not? You love parties. You know rich, and you're far from boring," Santana had explained; she had been completely serious about this. Kitty had potential. "You'd be perfect. And it's an actual career so you dad

I guess you're right..." Kitty had said, glancing behind her to scan the crowd. "I did bring in some of my theater friends and people from the Kristina tour..." She sighed. "I'll consider it."

"Good."

"Question."

"Hit me."

"Do people know who you are?"

Santana had stared at Kitty, confused. "I sure hope so. I was the only who opened the doors a few hours ago."

"Yeah, but do people remember you?"

"Where are you going with this?"

"So, I take that as a no. Well, we have to put you on notice."

Santana had blinked. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Kitty had rolled her eyes. She reached over to pick up two glasses of champagne off a traveling waiter's tray. She handed on to Santana.

Santana shook her head. "I don't drink on the job."

Kitty have given her a look. "Oh, come on, champagne?'

"Champagne contains alcohol."

"Really?" Kitty chugged the entire drink before setting the glass on the table next to her. "Who the hell gets drunk off of _champagne_?" When she had realized that Santana wouldn't relent, Kitty shrugged and downed the second glass. "Okay, I have a plan: body shots."

Santana had blinked again. "Excuse me?"

"How can you run a bar, and you don't know what a body shot is?"

Santana had sent Kitty a dirty look. "I know what a body shot _is_."

Santana had scoffed. Body shots. Damn, when the last time she had done that? Pride back in '09, off the stomach of a lady she had seriously considered taking home, but then had talked herself out of it, for some reason. Yeah, that had been shame; she had been a stunner.

Santana had shaken the thought out of her mind. The point was: body shots so _college_. This was supposed to be a mature establishment; not a pit-stop for Columbia students or adventurous tourists.

"So, then what's the problem?"

" _No_."

"Why not?"

"Because—who does that?"

"People do it all the time!" Kitty had insisted. "Oh, _come on_ , you said that I should be a promoter. Well, I'm promoting shit."

" _Katherine Wilde_."

"Seriously, Santana, live a little." Then Kitty had clapped her hands so loudly that Santana could hear them over the music. Then, she had flashed her partner a smirk and winked before skipping away. "I'll be back," she had promised.

Santana honestly hadn't cared until a second later upon realization of what exactly Kitty had intended to do. "Kitty!"

"I'll be back!"

Before Santana knew it, Kitty had been back only to drag her friend back to the bar. Santana had tried her darnedest to free herself from the grip, but Kitty had refused to let up. She had always been just like Santana—stubborn.

"Just one."

"Okay, fine. One. I'll do one. Do you know here me, Kitty, _one_? Now, can you let me go?'

"So, you can run away? Hell no!"

Kitty wouldn't let Santana go until they had reached the crowded bar. Fetching a portable mic from one of the bartenders, Kitty had stood up on one of the chairs (not stools, thank goodness; that wouldn't have ended well in her Louboutin's), and announced in the loudest voice possible, completely disregarding Santana's death glare, "Are you having a good time?"

Everyone cheered.

"My name is Kitty Wilde, one of the owners of this wonderful place." More cheers. "And right here beside me is seriously the woman of the night, the one who made this place and this night possible, Santana Lopez!"

Even more cheers.

Santana hated to admit it, but Kitty might have been on to something. Everyone had their eyes on her—she took the mic Kitty had handed her, and had spoken into it, "Hello everyone, and thank you for being here."

Santana had slightly cringed at the boisterous cheer as she handed Kitty back the mic. Everything had been going fine; she might have been able to leave this area soon—

Oh, how was she kidding? Kitty wouldn't let her leave without and body shot, and the goddamn crowd had agreed with her.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

Her name was Brittany—that had been the name shouted to Kitty by the most beautiful woman Santana had ever laid eyes on. That had been the name of the woman who wanted to do a body shot with her.

If Santana hadn't been so concerned about going to prison, she would have killed Kitty.

The crowd had approved of the choice, especially the men. _Of course,_ the men.

Santana couldn't understand it. She hadn't even said one word to Brittany and she could tell that she had a lovely, bright soul ( _lovely, bright soul_ —those words, what the hell?). And she hadn't even been into blondes. But Brittany? That woman would always be drop dead gorgeous, and her body—goodness. Santana had cleared her throat and sent Kitty a mean glare. Not because of Brittany? No, she could gladly lick anything off of her, but because of Kitty putting her in such an awkward position.

In front of all these patrons.

"Hi," Brittany had said, grinning wide when she approached Santana moments later. "Like I said, I'm Brittany."

Santana had nodded; seriously, that smile had brightened the _entire_ room. "Santana. I own this place."

"Yeah, I know." Brittany had scanned the place, nodding with approval. "Nice."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"So, you wanna get this show on the road?" Santana had asked, trying to maintain her coolness. Her mouth had gone dry as Brittany lifted her shirt, stopping at the bottom of her bra. She matched Brittany's smile.

" _Yes_."

And they did.

And it had been so wonderful.

And, as she slowly licked the salt off of Brittany's incredible abs, Santana might have been convinced that she had been in love.

And it had been over way too quickly.

Kitty had stared at her, _stunned_ that Santana had actually done _that_. The crowd had gone wild, and Brittany? Well, she had been watching Santana's every move with a pleased look on her face. She had only looked when the bartender had offered her a tissue to stomach her stomach.

Even with all the cheers, the hoots and hollering and the flashes from Kitty's iPhone, Santana's focus had only been on her. Brittany Pierce— a dancer currently on tour with a pop star, someone who would only been in the city for a day or two before hopping onto the next one.

She could have asked for her number. The look on Brittany's face had told her that the dancer had fully expected to hear the question; she might have also been offering.

But in the end, Santana hadn't asked her. Why? Santana would always maintain that she hadn't had the time; she had a bar to manage. The only reason she had even _entertained_ the notion of doing a body shot was because of a promotion (which actually worked).

And just like that, Santana hadn't seen Brittany in person ever since. It had been fine; nothing was going to come out of it anything. Santana had been far too busy, especially during the first couple of years since the opening— as evidence, she would claim that she wouldn't take a vacation until 2015 and had only started making _new_ friends a couple of years ago.

She told herself it just wasn't meant to be.

And she would have been perfectly fine with it if it hadn't been for Kitty and her insistence to get _everyone_ married. (Kitty hadn't always been like this, but then she met Jake, and everything went downhill from there.) It was because of Kitty, Santana had a Tinder account—she didn't ask for this.

At all.

By the second week, she had fully planned to delete the damn thing. But then, there she was: Brittany Pierce, dressed in catsuit inspired by Britney Spears in her Toxic music video, ready to go on stage for a concert, and _damn_.

Sam had found out about it over a glass of Long Island Ice Tea's—Santana couldn't help it, but Kitty could never know—that was a week ago.

* * *

"So, you blame the body shots."

"I don't blame the body shots," Santana insisted, half-tempted to order a drink herself. "It's just that—what do you expect from that? A marriage proposal? People don't meet long-term partners in a _goddamn bar._ "

"Well, bar and lounge."

"Same difference."

"So, you didn't contact her."

"No, I didn't," Santana finally admitted, wondering how this conversation shifted from Sam's failing love life to hers.

"And why not?"

"Like she would remember me," Santana bitterly replied. "And anyway, what if she doesn't like what she sees…"

She couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She was Santana, for goodness' sakes. Her pride was as big as the older Puckerman (but less of a menace to society).

"I mean, she had let you lick her abs, she couldn't have found you _that_ unappealing," Sam reasoned, and then added, because of course he would, "So, when you get back together, can you, like, uh revisit that moment? For research purposes of course."

He gave her an innocent grin.

She gave him a dirty look. "You straight men are all the same."

"Can we revisit this question when you finally reach out to her?"

"I'll think about it."

Sam leaned closer. "Are _you_ ever going to reach out to her?"

"Are _you_ ever going to find a girlfriend who isn't bat shit crazy?"

"Touché."

Santana shook her head and sighed. Yeah, that was that she thought.

"How about a deal?"

Santana groaned.

"Since I can be damn sure you're going to interfere with my love life, let's help each out: you find me whoever, and I'll get Brittany back inside this bar."

Santana narrowed her eyes. "And how would _you_ do that?"

"Is it a deal?"

"Sam!"

"Yes or no."

"Damn it— _fine_."

"Handshake?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

The friends shook hands.


	3. Hopeless RomantiX

**Author's note : Thank you so much for the feedback, favorites, followings, etc. It really brings a smile to my face. And I would also like to apologize for my sporadic updating. I had writer's block and had made the terrible mistake of writing five, in progress, stories at a time. **

* * *

**Hopeless RomantiX**

 ** _Need: 1.5oz. of X-Rated Fusion Liquer, 2.0oz. of Prosecco, .25oz lemon juice, .25oz. of orange juice, .25oz. of pineapple juice_**

 ** _How to make: Mix the lemon, orange and pineapple juice together. Add the Prosecco and Fushion Liquer. Strain and serve in a highball glass and garnish with a pineapple slice._**

 ** _Credit: X-Rated Fusion Liquer_**

* * *

Santana had no one but herself to blame for this mess.

She should have never talked to Sam about his in-the-toilet love life. She should have just let him drown away his problems with diluted drinks and go on her way.

She should have never mentioned _anything_ to Sam about Brittany or make a deal that involved matchmaking.

How could she have been this stupid?

"I have to say: Santana Lopez, I am truly disappointed in you."

Santana frowned into her drink, a slightly spiked Shirley Temple _. Kitty disappointed in her_? Fuck, she was disappointed in herself.

It was nine in the evening. Happy Hour was moments away from ending, and then the real party would begin. She was supposed to managing the place, making sure everything was going according to plan. Not get berated by Kitty soon-to-be Puckerman about her shameful behavior—

She was Santana Lopez, for goodness' sake. Santana Lopez didn't turn into a blubbering fool in front of perspective "lady friends." That was Sam's M.O!

"Can we not talk about this?"

What Santana needed was a time machine so she could go back to 4:00pm today, before she had made a complete fool out of herself. Before she watch Brittany walk through her bar doors, looking drop-dead gorgeous. Looking more beautiful than she had been that fateful night, with that smile and sparkling eyes...

Kitty snorted. "Oh no, this is something we have to talk about."

"Kitty..."

"I'm just saying. That was the most pathetic sight I've ever seen since Paris Hilton's attempt to become a singer—"

"Ah Dios mio..." Santana groaned and then snapped up, raising an eyebrow. "Wait, wasn't that years ago?'

"Exactly my point." Kitty shook her head. "This has got to change. No maid of honor of mine is going to act like that. No ma'am."

"I wasn't expecting that," Santana tried to explain. "I didn't think Sam was going to actually bring her _here_. To _my_ bar."

It honestly wasn't Santana's fault. She didn't think Sam would this off in four goddamn days. She wasn't expecting him to pull this off— ever.

All of times for that man not to procrastinate...

* * *

 ** _Four Hours Ago..._**

It was four days after making a rather-ill-advised bet with Sam to work on each other's love lives. The bet wasn't even on her mind after an hour after making it. By the time Day Three hit, she had been fully convinced that Sam would feel the same way.

He didn't.

Santana didn't know how he did it, but _he did it_ , and at approximately 5:00pm, one hour before happy hour, Sam Evans was walking through the doors of Santana's Bar with a gorgeous blonde walking behind him. Her outfit was simple. Her hair was up in a messy bun that seemed to really work on her.

Santana couldn't explain it, but she liked—fuck, she didn't know— seemed to brighten the place with her presence.

Dios, she was pretty—

And then Santana's eyes widened, but the woman who was walking around with Sam, wasn't just any woman. It was _her_. The dancer. The woman Santana had sort-of-kinda-not-really-but-maybe fallen in love with the moment she had licked the tequila and salt off of the woman's well-defined stomach.

Brittany.

It had been seven years since Santana had last seen her. It had been the night of the bar's grand opening. Brittany had been the one who had volunteered by a Kitty-coerced body shot. The same woman Santana had foolishly "ignored" and forgotten to get her number.

(In Santana's defense, though, it had been her new business' grand opening. She literally hadn't had time to flirt for anyone. _In her defense_.)

Holy shit.

Santana was not emotionally prepared for this moment; a fact that she would carry to her grave. She didn't know how to react; she didn't know how to do anything, but stare and hope she didn't looked like a gaping fish.

She seriously needed to get over herself. Her reputation didn't allow for this. She had to be strong, damn it. She needed to look confident; she needed to look—she didn't know, not like this.

She picked up her cup of soda and downed it in record time. Coke didn't do a damn thing for her, but maybe, in the back of her mind, she could imagine the brown-carbonated drink as something much stronger, and everything would get easier.

It didn't work.

But it was fine, she told herself. Screw this anxious feeling, she was _Santana Mother-fucking Lopez_. She could handle anything tossed her way. If she could deal with a couple of frat bros losing their damn minds and kicking them out in five minutes flat (despite threats of getting sued), she could definitely handle this.

"Santana!"

Santana stiffly waved. Did the man have a job? He wasn't supposed to be hanging out in with a bunch of Yankee players in a dug out, reporting and doing his job? She could have sworn there was a game tonight.

Santana didn't say anything word until Sam was feet away from her. "Brittany" was next to him, watching Santana, smiling at Santana, batting her eyes at Santana—

Or least that was what Santana thought she was doing.

"Hello," she simply said.

Brittany's grin grew.

"How are you this fine night?" Sam asked, looking very confident. She hated when he acted like this; this behavior meant shenanigans were going to soon happen. Before Santana could response, he clapped. "Oh snap, sorry about that. I was completely ignoring you," he said to "Brittany." He turned to Santana- he couldn't stop smirking, that bastard. "Santana, this is Brittany. Brittany, this is Santana."

"Hi," Brittany said.

Santana blinked.

Okay, there was a chance. A slim, but real chance, that this Brittany wasn't _her Brittany_. Sure, the woman looked just the same (and hadn't aged one bit, though if Santana was to be honest with herself, and she _supposedly_ was, it wouldn't have mattered). And her name was Brittany. And she did seem like she recognized Santana.

It could have just been a very, very confusing coincidence.

Brittany watched Santana, seemingly amused, and then she straightened her stance. Her eyes grew wide as she elbowed Sam hard enough for him to wince (served him right). "Oh, _I remember you_!"

Of course, she did.

Santana cleared her throat, and tried to look for the nearest bottle of alcohol to drink out of. But she knew she couldn't; she was on clock. She was supposed to be a professional, and professionals did not down an entire bottle of Smirnoff because of this.

(And also, she was in no mood to get her stomach pumped and/or die from alcohol poisoning.)

Sam raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two women. "You do?"

Shit, it _was_ her Brittany.

Santana only responded with: "What?"

"Oh my god, yes!" Brittany said. "You're Santana. The one I did the shot body shot with!" She turned her attention to Sam. "Sam, you should've been there. It was _wild_."

Sam was leaning against the bar, smirking like the smug man he occasionally was. "Oh really?"

Santana gave him a glare. She was going to castrate him; just as soon as she could find a way to go it without going to prison. Or convince Jake Puckerman to lend her his defense lawyer at a discounted rate.

"Wow, you remember that?" Santana asked, honestly surprised. It had been seven years.

Brittany's grin slowly morphed into a smirk. It wasn't something Santana expected to see on her (she seemed too nice) but goddamn, it looked sexy on her. "How could I not?" She took a step closer. "It's really you," she breathed. "Goodness, I thought I'd never see you again."

Santana honestly had no idea what was going on: maybe that was a testament to her sporadic love life. "Yeah, it's crazy. How long as it been, seven years?"

Brittany nodded; it seemed like she was unable to not smile. "Yes, seven long years."

Santana couldn't think of response. If this was any other time with any other person, Santana would have mostly definitely put on the moves. She was wonderful with that. The normal Santana would have been able convince the object of her desires to make-out somewhere, maybe even spend the night.

But the normal Santana had seemingly taken an ill-timed vacation.

See, if Samuel Theodore Evans had given her enough _time_ , Santana would have been more suave, not looking at Brittany like a gaping idiot.

This was all his fault.

And she was definitely going to blame him for the terribly long, awkward silence that soon fell between her and Brittany.

Sam honestly was confused by lack of exchange between the two women; he kept on looking at the both of them, anxious for one of them to make a move.

Brittany seemed a bit confused herself, a point that she was no longer brightening up the place Or least, not to the extent she had early. She was now twiddling her thumbs; she seemed a bit timid.

And Santana?

She might be having an emotional breakdown.

But it wasn't her fault, she would contend until the very end. She was used to dealing with woman who could render her speechless by simply _existing_.

"Well, uh... It was good seeing you again."

Santana nodded. At the back of her mind, something was telling her that this might be a good time to learn more about the Brittany; ask about her day? What she did for a living? How did she know Sam?

Was she single?

And if so, would she no longer want to be single?

But Santana wouldn't say anything of that because she was sort-of-most-likely-possibly having a brain freeze/emotional breakdown; she was no longer responsible for her actions.

"Yeah... yeah," Santana said. If she was Sam, she would be scratching the back of her neck, sheepishly smiling. "I mean. It was good too."

She couldn't tell if Brittany was disappointed, taken aback of surprised. She knew it wasn't happiness. Brittany's eyes didn't have the usual sparkle.

Santana wouldn't even entertain the thought of deciphering the look on Sam's face.

Thankfully, (or not), Sam was able to ruin the awkward moment. He stood up straight and said, "So, Brittany, you wanna get a table?"

Brittany seemed to snap out of her... mood, and nodded. "Yeah, sure." She glanced at Santana. "It was nice seeing you again. Have a lovely evening."

"Yeah, you too."

It was only then, as Sam and Brittany walked away to sit at a table in the middle of the bar, when Santana noticed Kitty, sitting at the other end of the bar, sharing a RomantiX with her husband to be, shaking her head in shame. As if Santana had given her a pair of cubic-zirconia earrings for her birthday.

* * *

"You need to fix this, missy," Kitty said, refusing to give Santana any kind of a pity party.

"There's nothing to fix."

"Oh don't give me that piece of crap," Kitty snapped. "You're going to fix it, and you know why? Because I fucking said so. I need my bitchy friend, Santana back. Do you understand me?"

"Kitty-"

"And while you do that, you have to somehow get Sam back with Mercedes, a multi-Grammy winner who hasn't seen him in like ten years."

Oh, right.

Santana had completely forgotten about her side of the bargain. In her defense, the last time she had been this stunned was back in high school when she came out to her family, and no one had given her any shit.

"Fuck my life."

"So, I guess you don't have a plan... So, I guess instead of planning my wedding, I have to fix yours and that loser's, who I barely even like, love lives."

"You're not involved—" Santana groaned. "And Sam's not a loser, just hopeless."

"Like you were a couple of hours of ago?"

"Fuck you."

"I already have a fiancé, thank you."

Santana rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, and since you two are so incompetent about your love lives, it's tragic-" Kitty pulled out her phone and quickly did a test, "I am going to have to call in reinforcements."

"Wait, wait, wait—what? _Who_?"

Kitty brushed off Santana's comment and the slightly horrified look on her face. As soon as she hit, "Send," she replied, "Kurt Hummel, that's who. And hurry up with your Shirley Temple. We have work to do."


	4. Sex on a Beach

**Author's note: I would like to apologize from the bottom of my heart for my extremely late update. I had previously lost inspiration to finish this story, but the Plot Bunny Gods finally shone a light on me and this story. Thank you so much for your support (I seriously don't deserve you all).**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Sex on a Beach**

 **Great, fun and lighthearted cocktail. Great conversation starter. Doesn't necessarily mean you're getting laid.**

 ** _Ingredients: 2.0 oz. of vodka, 1.0 oz. of peach schnapps, 2.0 oz. of grapefruit juice, 2.0 oz. cranberry juice._**

 ** _How to Make: Toss everything into a highball glass with ice. Stir the mixture. Garnish with a slice of orange or cherries._**

 ** _Credit: Mix that Drink Dot Com_**

* * *

"What the hell was that?"

This was a question Santana's been asking herself (with a bit more profanity) for the past twenty-four hours.

What the hell _was_ that?

What happened last night went against everything Santana had stood for. She was never a nervous wreck. She never just stood frozen in front of person, looking like she was starring in some terrible rom-com movie. She always went for the kill.

"I should be asking you the same thing," Santana retorted, tempting to snatch Sam's precious beer from his hand. He had some nerve coming into her bar after his latest stunt. "How are you gonna just bring her in like that?"

"I didn't think you'd react like that," Sam defended. "I thought you'd be happy to see her again? How long as it been? Seven years?"

"You threw me off," Santana grumbled. "You know I don't like being thrown off."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"As you should be," Santana snapped, though there was no heat behind it. Because she knew, deep inside, that Sam's intentions were innocent. "And now, because of your little stunt, I got to get you a girlfriend."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sam insisted, loosening his chair. That was a hint that he was becoming nervous. "I mean, we all don't have to get a—"

"Shut up, I'm getting you a girlfriend."

* * *

Having friends was both a blessing and a curse.

Especially when they were a rich, aspiring socialite, moments from marrying even a richer man. Especially when they became far too invested in some stupid bet made by their stupid friends. Especially when their name was Kitty Wilde.

Who just happened to be friends with far too many people in show business.

Which was the only reason why Kurt Hummel, celebrity stylist and make-up artist, was sitting in front of Santana at her namesake bar, sipping on Apple Martini's with Kitty basically fidgeting out of anticipation next to him, having her own Martini.

Santana didn't ask for this.

Kitty could care less about her feelings.

"I was told you are in need of my assistance," Kurt said, smiling. Giddy. Like he was excited to be involved in this mess. Practically flailing his arms around. "I am glad to help."

"Thank you," Santana said, diverting her eyes from the ecstatic man. The sight of him was making her head hurt, not because of him. No, he, always way too energetic for his own good, was fine. It was just everything about him screamed loud, starting from his very colorful attire.

A shirt should not have that many bright colors.

"So, Kitty, over here was telling me that you and a friend are involved in a matchmaking bet?"

"I guess you can say that," Santana said, shooting Kitty a mean look; the other wasn't fazed one bit. "It's stupid, really. But he's apparently, winning."

"You have a set date?"

"We didn't think that far."

"Ah," Kurt said, raising an eyebrow before glancing back at Kitty who just shrugged. "So who's the Romeo'?

"Sam Evans," Santana replied, unlocking her phone to search for a good picture of her friend. When successful, she showed Kurt. "He's a looker, but dense in the romantic world." That earned a laugh. "I was trying to reconnect him with an old flame."

"Right," Kurt said, nodding. "Mercedes."

"How did you know her?"

Kitty scoffed from afar.

Santana rolled her eyes.

"I'm her stylist," Kurt confessed, smirking. "And I know about her little fling with your friend. Didn't know it was that seriously."

"That whole thing was a shit-show full of people who didn't know how to use their words," Santana explained, flashing back that hot mess. She didn't get it; they were perfect for each other. But Sam being Sam was being _Sam_. "Wait, she told you?"

"Of course," Kurt smirked. "It's amazing what you can learn over a round of mimosas."

"So, are you going to help us or not?" Kitty asked.

"Sure," the stylist said. "But we have a little problem. Well, big. Over six feet and two hundred-fifty pounds of muscle-problem. She's dating Shane Tinsley, and it seems serious."

"Fuck," Santana cursed.

* * *

She saw Brittany again at the end of the week. During one of the most important day in the bar scene, second to Thirsty Thursday's, Friday night.

It wasn't expected.

And Santana was sure Sam had nothing to do with it.

Brittany was sitting at the bar, sipping on some Sex on the Beach, laughing away at some most likely corny joke made by Santana's prized bartender, Louis.

(Her feelings towards Louis were along the line of love-hate; similar to how it was with Sam, interestingly enough).

And she was just beautiful as the night before and that night seven years ago with her hair up, and barely-there makeup. She was a dancer, Santana knew about it, and based on Brittany's attire- a loose t-shirt and some sport leggings- and the way her skin glistened with just enough sweat, Brittany must have come straight from work.

Santana was going to do this. And she was going to do it because she wasn't a goddamn, love-sick, blubbering fool (that was Sam's job, she concluded with all of the affection in the world).

She had to be calm and collected. Cool. With one target and one target only. After downing what was left of her coffee (she refused to drink on the job), she bee-lined to the bar with her head up high.

It took Brittany a moment to notice Santana by her side, but when she did, she placed her drink on the bar table and grinned as if Santana was the person she wanted to see all along. "Well, what do you know, Miss Santana is gracing me with her presence."

Perhaps this was what drew Santana to Brittany; her light-heartened aura. The fact that it any inkling of awkwardness (on Santana's part) from the day before.

Santana felt that she could start over.

(And not act like a love-sick school girl).

"Brittany." Santana leaned her back against the wall and watched Brittany maneuver around her seat so both women were facing each other. "What brings you along to my establishment?"

Brittany grinned as she took a sip of her drink, not once removing her eyes from Santana's. "Had a tough practice. Thought I'd come here to unwind."

Santana liked the sound of that.

"And?"

Brittany raised an eyebrow. "And what?"

"Is it everything you wanted?"

Brittany gave Santana a once-over. At least, she attempted to be coy about it. " _Yes_ , it is."

"Well, I'm glad."

"Hey Louis, another one, will ya?" Brittany called out. "A mimosa, this time." Her attention returned to Santana. "I _love_ Sex on the Beach, but having two won't do me any good especially with an early morning coming it."

Santana could help but smile.

Louis gave the dancer a thumbs up, and made her drink a few moments later. "For you, Miss Brittany."

"You're a doll," Brittany chirped, pulling out some bills from her sports bra. "How much?"

"It's on the house," Santana quickly said.

Louis seemed surprised, but shrugged and said, "Sure thing, Boss Lady."

"Thanks."

"Thank you," Brittany said, actually grateful. "You didn't have to do that."

"After my behavior yesterday, I owe you drinks for life."

Brittany grinned. "No, it's fine," Brittany insisted. "It has been seven years. I was just as shocked to see you."

"You were?" Santana shook her head. "Yeah, well, sorry."

"I don't know why you're apologizing."

"I'm not always a blubbering fool."

Brittany laughed. "I figured you weren't. Sam told me that, too."

"Uh, did he?" Santana cleared her throat and, "And how do you know Sam, anyway?"

"I guess you can say he's an ex."

Santana blinked. Damn, did that man get around, and nothing _still_ was sticking. He needed help; maybe professional help. She wondered how mad he would be if she hired a legitimate matchmaker.

Anyway.

" _Seriously_? So was mine."

Brittany laughed. "Oh my gosh, what are the chances?" She leaned in, dropping her voice. "I mean, are we supposed to be friends with our ex's like that?"

"I went out with him back in high school," Santana said. "During my closeted phase."

Brittany nodded, understanding. "Ah yes, I remember those days..." she trailed off and shrugged. "We only messed around for a month; Nothing serious. I just came out of a relationship; he just came out of his..."

"Really?" Santana asked. "With whom?"

"You wouldn't believe this." "I mean, it's like six degrees of Kevin Bacon with that man—Mercedes."

Santana jolted back. Seriously, what were the odds? Mercedes Jones, the Grammy winner. The woman whom she wanted to hook Sam up with because of a dumbass bet. _What were the odds_?

She cleared her throat as Brittany continued.

"I'm dancing for her international tour starting next month," Brittany explained. "Absolutely a pleasant to work for. Wasn't weirded out at all when she found out about me and him. Not that I broadcasted or anything, but you know, we can't hide secrets forever." She shrugged. "It's no big deal… Hey, so, let's start over, shall we?" she offered, placing a warm hand on Santana's arm. "I'm going to be in the city for the next two weeks... so how about dinner tomorrow?"

Santana blinked.

Did that just happened?

The amused yet hopeful look on Brittany's face definitely said it did.

Santana was so confused.

This wasn't supposed to be this easy. _She_ was the forward one. _She_ was the one who put on all the moves. And here she was, once again, not being _her_ , and—

"To reminisce," Brittany added with a wink.

To reminisce about what? They barely knew each other. The only thing to reminisce was the body shot incident and last night's happy hour fiasco.

"To get to know each other more," Brittany said, apparently not taken aback by Santana's reaction. It was almost like she had expected it. "If you don't mind."

"Never," Santana said.

* * *

"Santana Lopez, you're making my head hurt," Kitty grumbled as she took a bite out of her prized slice of tiramisu. She was supposed to be on a diet for her upcoming wedding (completely unnecessary in Santana's mind), but there was something about that damn cake that she couldn't get away from. So as of last week, she was on a no-sugar, no-fat, no-carb diet with a couple of slices of tiramisu aside.

The bride-to-be claimed it was working.

Santana couldn't gather enough care in the world to question her.

It wasn't like it was life-threatening or anything.

Anyway.

"I don't understand. You're more indecisive about your love life than I am about whether or not I should add my stepmother who's old enough to be my little sister to my Bora Bora wedding party." Kitty shook her head. "You have a date tomorrow with your body-shot buddy. I thought you'd be jumping for joy."

"First of all, I don't jump for joy," Santana said, slightly offended. Though—she would only admit such six feet under—she had been thrilled when Brittany put her number in her phone. "And second—I thought you were going to invite your stepmother, just to keep your dad's mouth shut? And please do not tell me you're getting married there."

"She's practically a child!" Kitty exclaimed before angrily taking a bite out of her cake. "Okay, so she's like a year younger than me, but _still_. And what's wrong with Bora Bora?"

Bora Bora was a shit-ton of money for people _below_ Kitty's tax bracket.

"Bora Bora is a honeymoon location, not a location for a wedding."

"Says who?" Kitty said, bringing her hand to her chest in her usual dramatic way. "Oh, I see what you're trying to do. You're changing the subject," she accused.

Santana rolled her eyes. Okay, so she was, but whatever. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are!" "And I don't appreciate you trying to gaslight me."

Santana blinked. "I'm not sure you're using that word—"

" _Whatever_."

Santana shook her head and ordered a glass of red wine. It was late, and she was technically off the clock; she could handle some wine right now. "Look, I'm saying I'm not looking forward it. It's just that, you know _me_ , I don't do dates."

The last time she had been on an _actual_ date was back in college.

"First time for everything."

"And don't you think it's weird?" Santana carried on, annoyed at how much sense Kitty was making. "She used to date Sam. She works for Sam's ex sort-of-kinda girlfriend."

" _Puleeze_ , who hasn't Sam dated?" Kitty snorted, rolling her eyes. "If it wasn't for Jake coming along, _I'd_ probably go on a date with him, as tragic as that sounds. And anyway, wasn't it just rebound sex?"

"So, you don't think it's weird."

"No, darling, I don't, and neither does she," Kitty said, and then sucked her teeth. "Damn it, Santana, this whole-insecurity-kick you're having right now is not a good look on you. You need to stop them so much damn much. It's one date, not a damn marriage proposal. See how it goes; hey, the night may turn out better than the grand opening. Maybe you'll get more than a body shot?"

Santana eyed her friend. "You're oddly optimistic."

"It's the wedding bliss," Kitty said with an uncharacteristic smile, and then, "Hey, you'll never know if you try."

Santana guessed she was right.


End file.
